Terms of Bereavement
by maenhi
Summary: It's Draco's 30th birthday, and certainly not too early for a small midlife crisis. H/D.


**Author:** mijeli

**Title: **"Terms of Bereavement"

**Rating: **PG-13

**Word Count: **~2,200

**Warnings: **The dreaded receding hairline!

**Summary:** You think thirty is early for a midlife crisis? Tell Draco about it.

**Beta**: Kamerreon

**Author's Notes: **Predictable as it might be, I simply couldn't resist this image. Written for livejournal's hd_birthdaybash. Feedback appreciated as always!

* * *

"Draco, are you okay? You've been in there for thirty-seven minutes—"

"—not that you're counting." The other voice is muffled through the bathroom door.

Harry sighs; after five years, he is used to Draco fretting on the evening before his birthday. That doesn't mean he'll neglect a well-earned shower after The Day The Auror Department Decided To Hate Harry Potter.

"What are you doing?" he tries again.

"Facing the tragedies of approaching death."

Harry rolls his eyes.

Six minutes later, the bathroom door opens and Draco steps out with an apocalyptic demeanour. "I'm dying," he proclaims.

Harry looks at him as seriously as he manages, "And why is that?"

"I found a white hair."

The words are uttered with such sobriety that Harry's restraints wobble. Despite the doom doubtlessly befalling him, should the smile make its way out, he feels the corners of his lips quirk.

"Draco, your head is full of them. Since you're eleven."

"_Blond_ hair," Draco snaps, frowning angrily. The frown causes wrinkles to appear that weren't there before. "That is a giant difference. This one doesn't even shine in the bathroom light, like the others — the pigments are just gone."

A very prominent image of pigments striking their tents won't leave Harry's mind.

"I'm sure it's not that bad," he tries to console his lover.

Draco snorts derisively, stomping past Harry towards the next accessible mirror. "I don't expect _you_ to understand that," he grumbles, "blessed with ridiculous hair that's too stubborn to even fall out! I can't believe my hairline is doing this to me in a time like this." He raises a hand to run it across his temples and practically winces.

Harry looks at him with a mixture of fondness and resignation. "You always had a high brow," he says. "Remember telling everyone what a sign for, um, aristocratic intellectuality it was?"

Draco frowns at himself. "I was, of course, only saying that to make myself feel better."

"Whatever." Determined now, Harry steps up behind him and puts his chin on Draco's shoulder. "You look good. Fucking gorgeous, if you ask me. And you're turning thirty, not three hundred, so calm down, alright?"

"But Harry," Draco whines, which makes him sound no older than three, "don't you see? This is only the beginning!"

"Of what?"

"Of the end!"

Of course.

"So what? The end's a part of it, too." Harry wraps his arms around Draco's waist and nuzzles his neck. Draco's wondrous new shampoo is not only supposed to strengthen the scalp, but also smells incredible, and Harry inhales deeply. The fine hairs on Draco's nape tickle his nose.

Draco snorts, but leans into him. "Stop the pretence, Potter, wisdom doesn't suit you."

"Oh, right." An evil grin spreads on Harry's face. "That's reserved for you and your aristocratic loss of hair."

He is rewarded with a not-so-gentle elbow to the ribs.

"And anyway, that's only because I'm older than you."

Harry can barely hold back a smirk. "I'm not going to have white hair in two months, if that's what you're saying."

"You might."

Harry doesn't bother coming up with a reply, as he's busy trailing kisses from Draco's ear to the peak of his sharp chin. Stubble too light to be seen scratches his lips and it makes him smile. This never gets boring.

"Hmmm."

"Having fun?"

"So much of it."

Draco throws his reflection one last, sceptical look, then turns in Harry's arms and kisses him properly. Harry hums his approval when arms wrap around his neck and a gentle tongue nudges against his lips, demanding entrance. He raises one hand and tangles it in Draco's hair, deliberately tracing his hairline, and can't help smiling into the kiss.

"Mmph," Draco murmurs, pulling back. "That's not funny." His eyes are fierce, but not nearly angry enough.

"No, you're right." Harry quickly pecks him on the lips. "I'm going to take a shower now and you can think about what you want to do tomorrow."

"Why would I want to do anything tomorrow?"

"Draco, we've been there."

"Seems like we haven't!" Draco steps back and crosses his arms in front of his chest. "What should I be doing tomorrow, throw a party? Oh, I forgot, everyone I cared about is dead or in prison! I am _not_ going to celebrate growing old and dying. And you can't make me."

With a sigh, Harry wanders back to the bathroom. "Fine, I won't. Happy sulking."

Under the delicious spray of hot water, he closes his eyes and relaxes. He loves Draco, he really does, but once a year the man is a complete pain in the arse; yes, it wasn't easy for him to lose friends and family members after the war to either death or Azkaban, and Harry more than most people knows what it feels like. What he doesn't get, though, is the annual panic coming in with 5 June.

Harry, himself, never gave aging much thought — to him, it is something that just happens. Facing death on a regular basis in his teens certainly sharpened his awareness of the end, and he knows that it isn't a question of day or year. Death to Harry is so painfully random, it's sometimes hard to bear.

He knows that Draco's past is different. He grew up protected, only to be thrown to the wolves in a moment of failure. The finality of death took everything from him, things that Harry learned to live without from the very beginning; and so while they both carry their burden, he knows it will take Draco much longer to accept.

When Harry has dried off, he finds Draco on their balcony. The smudgy grey veil against the night sky tells that he is smoking again, but Harry has stopped ranting; admittedly, he'll never be a fan of the taste, but from time to time he'd bum one off Draco, just for the fun of it. It also looks ridiculously good on his lover.

"Back," he announces as he steps out on the wooden planks. The night is mild and a tender breeze moves the clothes on the rack and Draco's fair hair. Harry sits down next to him and stretches his bare feet into the wind.

Draco takes a drag and releases the smoke, linking his ankle with Harry's. Harry feels the never-quite-smooth touch of a hairy male leg against his own and smiles. Took him long enough to appreciate its merits.

They sit in silence for minutes, watching the lights from the city and the dull shine they leave on the clouds. Harry puts one hand on the small of Draco's back and lifts his shirt just enough to slip his fingers beneath.

"I never thought about being old," Draco says, taking another drag. "How come you never think about this when you're young?"

Harry traces Draco's spine as far as he can reach. "Because it would spoil your youth?"

"What's there to spoil? You think you're on top of the world when you're young."

"And you aren't?"

Draco looks at him, surprised. "Of course not. You're a pathetic fool, trying to please the ones that don't deserve it."

Harry chuckles and decides not to comment. He can't say the rants don't amuse him.

"Until you grow older and are supposed to know better." Draco tilts his head back and produces a well-rehearsed smoke ring. Harry watches his cheeks hollow and his Adam's apple press against the paper-thin skin of his throat. It's a nice sight. "But what if you don't? If you still have no idea?" Draco shakes his head. "Then you're seriously fucked."

Harry looks at him. He pulls his fingers from Draco's shirt and places them in the feathery hairs on his nape. Draco struggles to keep up a stern expression, but it's obvious he'd purr if he could.

"Don't you see — it's only expectations and commitments growing. That's it. What privileges do you gain by growing older?" He casts his cigarette stub over the rail. "You gain nothing. Just rot away."

After years of being in a relationship with Draco Malfoy, Harry is no longer surprised by his negative attitude, which occasionally borders on nihilism. He knows every last streak of Draco's passion, has been the target of the same; the gloomy moods, he suspects, are the shadow side thereof and he never tries to dismiss them.

"You gain experience, though," Harry says while stroking Draco's hair. "Maybe you don't learn as much every day as when you're a kid, but you still do. You have jobs, affairs, problems that you have to solve. Does that count for nothing?"

Draco sighs. "It does. But that's what life is all about for adults — solving problems. No one really remembers what it's like to _live_."

"Live, solving problems, what's the difference?" Harry spreads his fingers on Draco's scalp like a spider.

"How do you grow when all you do is sort out troubles? You're not so much acting as you're _re_acting."

"Well —" An image of a tent in the woods grows more distinct in Harry's mind; then of a hand and a wand, and another. "That's what it's about for me. I never thought my actions were worth any less because they were reactions."

Draco rolls his eyes but leans over to kiss his ear. "They aren't worth any less, hero. I was talking about regular folk like me."

Harry nudges him. "Oh, really? I must have missed that part."

With a resigned sigh, Draco slumps against the backrest again and gazes into the night. "I'm thinking about quitting my job."

"You are?" Harry frowns. "Last week you were so enthusiastic about your potions, I thought it was Snape all over ag—ouch!"

"As if you had any idea what I was talking about," Draco deadpans, but a smile widens on his face. "I do love brewing potions. But what if there's more to life than repeating what you already love? I don't want to be old and find out I have — well, become Snape." He grimaces. Harry remains quiet, intently focusing on an ominous red light blinking in the distance. He can feel Draco looking at him.

"Harry. You know this was about the potions, right?" Draco lifts a hand and places it on Harry's jaw. "Because there's no way in hell I'm ever letting you wander off."

Against all intentions, Harry smiles. In these moments he feels ridiculous for wanting the confirmation after all these years, even after proving his worth on too many occasions to recount; but he's almost come to accept the threat of insufficiency and losing everything in a heartbeat as part of him.

"What would you do instead?" he asks. "Instead of the potions?"

"I'm not sure. Maybe I'll write a book."

"You — really?"

"Why not?" Draco shrugs. "At least that's something that lasts."

Somehow, Harry likes the idea of that. He recalls the many situations in which Draco got excited over literary snippets that are older than both of them together, and wonders whether he ever acknowledged their power.

"I like it," he says.

"Really?"

"Really. As long as you let me read it."

Draco makes a face. "We'll see about that."

"Hey! If it's published, everyone else can read it, too."

"That's different. They're not going to leave me for what they find."

"Idiot."

"Self-righteous prat."

Harry feels Draco shift, then his head is on Harry's shoulder. His hair that so recently started to lose its golden glory is mussed up against Harry's cheek. "You smell good," Draco murmurs and kisses his neck. "You didn't snag my shampoo, did you?"

"You forget I don't need it," Harry grins. Next, he feels a bite where the kiss was.

The night around them has progressed into a murky monochrome, faint colours crawling in only at the corners. A discreet _Tempus_ tells Harry there's mere minutes left until midnight. He snuggles closer and kisses the top of the blond head.

"You know, you don't have to make up your mind right now," he says. "That's the good part — we're already there. No more fretting about what it's like to grow up. And I really bloody love your hair."

Draco smiles against his skin. "I'm not fretting."

"You are."

"Maybe a little bit." Then he tilts his head, trying to catch Harry's eyes. "Harry?"

"Hm?"

"Can we please not celebrate, though?"

"What, no presents?" Harry tries to suppress a grin. "As you wish."

At that, Draco's fingers tighten on Harry's waist and he seems to consider his options. "How about we celebrate next week? When I've overcome the shock of approaching death?"

Harry knows that, just like every year, the world will look different as it can once the morning dawns. After being awakened with an unforgettable blowjob, the spoilt git will be in a celebratory mood to keep Harry busy the entire day. Not that he minds — as much as he likes this gloomy Draco, he likes his happy version even better.

"Let's do that," he agrees, completely hypocritical. Somewhere, far away, a clock strikes and it's 5 June.

Draco cringes. "Don't say it."

So Harry leans down and says something else.


End file.
